


Forgery

by adelaide_rain



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's team needed the best forger there was, and that turned out to be an ex-Royal Marine gone AWOL who had been involved in Project Somnacin. His name was Eames, and though he wasn’t involved in dreamshare anymore it was Arthur’s intent to change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgery

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Forgery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032958) by [PrettyPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPenny/pseuds/PrettyPenny)



A forger in dreams, forging paintings in real life. It made Arthur smile.

His team needed the best forger there was, and that turned out to be an ex-Royal Marine gone AWOL who had been involved in Project Somnacin. His name was Eames, and though he wasn’t involved in dreamshare anymore it was Arthur’s intent to change his mind.

Getting information on Eames had stretched Arthur’s abilities to the limits. Whatever had made him run was buried too deeply in the Project files, but what Arthur had gotten his hands on impressed him. The scientists who had written the reports – jaded, cynical men and women who had been working on Project Somnacin for years – had _gushed_ over what Eames could do in dreams.

Which brought Arthur here, standing outside a heavy wooden door in Berlin and wondering how he could coax Eames back into the world of dreamshare.

At Arthur’s light rap, the door slid open to reveal a well-lit room with wooden floors and carved panelling, high ceiling, chandelier and wedding-cake trims.

The door hid the person who had opened it and dulled his voice.

“Weapons?”

“Glock,” Arthur said, lifting his jacket to show his shoulder holster. “I thought it was a sensible precaution.”

“Very perceptive,” the voice said, clipped English accent betraying his upper class upbringing. The door swung shut and Arthur hitched an eyebrow. He had done meticulous research, had seen many photographs and had known Eames was handsome. He hadn’t, however, counted on the charisma or the charm, the smile or the glitter of fierce intelligence behind smoke-coloured eyes.

Arthur found himself immediately and irresistibly attracted to him. He clenched his jaw. That made this more difficult. Nothing that he couldn’t handle but it was a complication he hadn’t expected.

“And I have a SIG Sauer,” Eames said, lifting his linen jacket to show Arthur. “As you say, a precaution.” He gave him a long look and Arthur resisted the urge to fidget under his gaze. “So you’re Arthur.”

“And you’re Eames.”

“Arthur’s a lovely name,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“Thank you,” Arthur replied, lips narrowing. People had teased him about his name all his life. It had long since stopped being hurtful and barely even annoyed him now.

“My first crush was King Arthur.” Eames’s voice was a little dreamy and the only response that Arthur could come up with was to stare at him.

Eventually he managed, “Isn’t he a little old for you?”

Eames chuckled. “My mum gave me a copy of _Le Morte d’Arthur_ for my eleventh birthday and I’ve been besotted ever since.” He slipped into a perfect French accent for the title and Arthur struggled to suppress a ripple of pleasure. Arthur was an unashamed Francophile and the accent did wondrous things to Eames’s voice, which in any case could make a grocery list sound like a dirty phone call. “I bought a copy recently illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley, it’s bloody lovely.”

“I have that,” Arthur said, lips parting in surprise. “I love Beardsley.”

“Hmm,” Eames said, tapping his chin. “Perhaps I could get hold of some of his art for you – if you’d be interested?”

“I didn’t realise you took requests.”

“I don’t, usually. But for a handsome man with my favourite name, I’d be willing to make an exception.”

Arthur could feel a smile attempting to surface, but he kept his expression neutral. Being taken in by such a by-the-book compliment was pathetic, even if that voice made it sound like so much more. “We’ll see.”

Eames nodded and gave Arthur another long, penetrating look.

“Well,” he said eventually, giving Arthur a smile that was too bright. “Shall we take a look at the painting?”

“Certainly.”

The easel was in the middle of the room, covered with a white cloth. When Eames carefully removed the covering, Arthur stared.

The subject matter was disturbing, as were so many of Bacon’s paintings; two men entangled in savage intercourse, sex and violence entwined.

Arthur had examined the painting in the office of a Russian Mafioso several months before, with the Russian’s arm around his waist and his lips against his neck. Despite Dmitri’s attempts to distract him, Arthur had taken a good look at the painting before giving in and fucking him. Their relationship had been brief but satisfying, and they had parted on good terms; Arthur had called him yesterday to verify that the artwork still hung on his wall.

Had he not known that this was a fake, he would never have suspected. The forgery was perfection. Every brush stroke, every anguished blur of paint and disfigured feature was Bacon’s.

Another thing he had not expected. Everything about Eames was a surprise and he felt constantly off balance, on a ship tossed in stormy seas. Arthur _hated_ being off balance. He folded his arms and forced himself to relax his jaw before the tension gave him away.

“This isn’t the kind of painting that appeals to everyone,” Eames said, standing a discrete distance to the side with his hands in his pockets.

“I know that we only met five minutes ago but I would hope that you have already recognised that I’m not ‘everyone’.”

“Most assuredly, Arthur, most assuredly.”

There was something in his voice that made Arthur glance away from the painting to see Eames looking at him with desire that he wasn’t even trying to hide. Arthur swallowed, returning his gaze to the painting for a long moment before he looked back at Eames.

“Just like I can see that _you’re_ not ‘everyone’.”

“I should hope not,” Eames said, stepping closer to Arthur, so that only a foot or so separated them. “That would be so boring, don’t you think?”

“Boring has its attractions.”

“While we did indeed only meet five minutes ago, I know that you don’t mean that. You’re a man who likes-“ Eames paused and his smirk grew. “-excitement.”

“Now really, Eames, what would give you that idea?”

He pointed at the painting. “That you’re a fan of Bacon, for a start.”

“I am,” Arthur agreed, turning back to the canvas. “I find the way that violence and sex are linked so intrinsically to him fascinating.”

“I like his portraits better than I like this,” Eames said, his eye examining his own work. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that there is violence in sex – and I appreciate a little violence in sex, done well – but I always find myself disturbed by these works. By the rawness of them - the truth in them, I suppose.”

He sounded like he meant it and Arthur wondered what, then, had made him paint this particular piece.

“Truth is often disturbing,” Arthur said.

“True,” Eames said, amusement flitting over his face, as brief and warm as a sunbeam’s appearance on an overcast day.

And just like that, it clicked into place: Eames really was a forger. Not just in dreams or as a painter but as a person. He was an actor and a work of art. Everything was arranged carefully to distract an onlooker – his clothes, all mismatched patterns and clashing colours, designed to lead the eyes away from taking too close a look at the man himself. His easy smile, his intoxicating charisma - masks, diversions.

Arthur’s instinct was to get out of there.

Partly the instinct was professional – people like Eames should not be toyed with. Partly it was personal – the way Arthur wanted him was startling in its intensity. Intelligence was his biggest weakness and the few times he had fallen in love it had been with ferociously clever people. He should have been prepared for this: the research had shown Eames had a first class honours degree from Oxford and the reports from Project Somnacin had repeated that he clearly understood the complicated workings of the PASIV device and how the compounds affected the body.

But Arthur couldn’t give in to that instinct: they were both here and if Arthur didn’t convince Eames to join them then the client would make things very difficult for him and his team. To get the job done they needed a forger – they needed the best forger.

It was time to drop the pretence.

“Mr. Eames, I’ve not been honest with you. I didn’t come here to buy this painting. I know that this is a forgery – your work – and that the original is still hanging in the study of Russian Mafia lieutenant Dmitri Mogilevich.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because Dmitri and I used to fuck.” Arthur hoped that a blunt statement about the kind of people he associated with would dispense with any dramatics.

Instead of the reaction Arthur hoped for, he received only a quirked eyebrow. “Then we have something in common.”

Arthur blinked.

“That’s how I managed to make this so convincing; though he’s awfully distracting, isn’t he?”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“So why are you here, Arthur? Is your name even Arthur?”

Blunt honesty was best, Arthur decided. “I work in extraction and I came to convince you to join my team.”

A flicker of surprise flashed over Eames’s face, a momentary glimpse of his true feelings.

“Well, well,” Eames said, folding his arms over his ugly paisley shirt. “Extraction, hmm? I wonder how you found out about me.”

“It’s my job to find out,” Arthur said and gestured at a brocaded sofa against one wall. “Why don’t we sit and I’ll tell you more?”

For a moment Eames’s expression hardened and it looked as though he was going to flat out refuse, but he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ll listen.”

And he did. He knew a little about extraction, knew a few people in the business but they didn’t know he had been involved in Project Somnacin. Arthur explained about the job, what Eames’s role would be, the other people in the team. He mentioned the money too, though he knew that it wasn’t a monetary reward that would spark Eames’s interest.

“When I was in the military,” Eames said eventually, “They used the PASIV device to do some pretty unpleasant things.” Curiosity burned but Arthur tried to keep his expression steady; Eames smiled, amused by his reaction. “I’m not going to share what those things were, but I assure you that I had more than enough reason to leave them and dreamshare behind.”

He didn’t sound interested, so Arthur pushed. “But surely for you, for an artist, the creative aspect is irresistible.”

“So is heroin to an addict,” Eames said, darkness like thunderclouds rolling in over his smile. “I should know, I’ve been there and I’ll never go back.” His honesty was disarming. “I thought I’d never go back to dreamshare either.”

“Does that mean you might?”

“I’m a sucker for an impeccably dressed man.” Eames’s easy, lying smile was back in place. Arthur felt frustrated with the mask; the glimpses of the man hidden beneath were intriguing. “Let me see the dream and I’ll think about it.”

“Let me buy you a coffee and then-“

“I’ll get to see what’s under that lovely Burberry shirt?”

Arthur’s lips twitched. “We’ll talk and then see what you decide.”

“About us having incredible sex?”

“About the job.”

“And the sex?”

“Very presumptuous, Mr. Eames.”

“Not presumptuous at all, Arthur. The reason I can do what I do in dreams is because I’m a master of reading people.” Eames spoke without vanity. “How quickly they blink, the way they hold their hands – it all means something.”

“Are you saying you can read me like a book?” The suggestion annoyed Arthur – he hated clichés.

“Hmm. Like a book in a language I don’t read very well. Japanese, maybe – the hiragana and katakana and kanji all adding layers of complexity. But I can read enough to tell that you’re attracted to me.” He slid along the sofa until their legs were touching, and Eames ran a finger down Arthur’s thigh.

Ignoring the heated shiver that ran down his spine, Arthur moved the hand away from his leg and gave Eames his coolest of looks. “Alright. I will admit that you’re a very attractive man. One who I read as trying to avoid my initial suggestion. Perhaps because he’s afraid.”

There was a pause and for one second there was a crack the layers of masks and easy smiles and Arthur saw a splinter of something dark and angry and _dangerous_.

He moved casually, allowing his jacket fall open and give him better access to his Glock. No doubt Eames could read that as well, but losing the element of surprise was preferable to adding seconds to reaching his weapon.

Eventually Eames sat back and folded his arms. “Whatever your research might have told you, I am no coward. Perhaps one day we will trust one another and I’ll tell you exactly why I left. For now, let’s say that you’ve intrigued me. Make that offer of coffee into a dinner date and I’ll listen.”

After a long pause, Arthur sighed. “Dinner it is.”

He stood and they walked across the room to the door, but Arthur paused in front of the easel. It really was an excellent piece of art.

“Is the painting still for sale?”

Eames’s eyebrows rose and he nodded. “It is. I suppose I should offer you a discount since you know it’s not the real thing. Why do you want it? Fond memories of fucking Dmitri while gazing up at it?”

“I think it will help me to understand you better – to know who you are under your mask.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames said, chuckling with a degree of amusement that baffled Arthur. “You have no idea.”  
==  
It had been three weeks since the successful extraction; three weeks of waking up with the warmth of Eames in his bed. Every morning, it surprised Arthur. It was rare that he kept company this long and rarer still that he was happy for it to continue.

He smiled, still sleepy, and ran a thumb gently over Eames’s stubbled cheek. These were dangerous waters he was treading, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The sex was incredible, Eames was witty and smart, and his cooking was fantastic. If his mother met him, she would insist that he was a keeper and start asking when the wedding was. Arthur’s eyebrows dipped into a frown at the thought of his mother and Eames meeting. God forbid that it should ever happen.

He slid out of bed and padded quietly to the bathroom, taking his time in the shower and leaving his hair to air dry. Eames loved running his fingers through Arthur’s curls when Arthur was relaxed enough to let him and today was one of those rare days.

Putting a pot of coffee on, he sat at the table and switched on his laptop, considered what to make for breakfast.

An email caught his attention and he opened it, all thoughts of coffee and breakfast forgotten.

When Eames had delivered his forgery, before the extraction, Arthur had asked a friend in the art world to have a look at it. She had finally replied.

 _Arthur,_ the email started. _I assume you know that the painting is a forgery so we’ll dispense with that revelation. I’m worried for the sanity of whoever made this. It’s a work of art, of course, a perfect forgery, but it’s painted over another painting – another forgery just as exquisite as the Bacon. I have no words so I’ll just attach the x-rays._

Opening the attachments, Arthur’s mouth dropped open.

The underpainting was one of Coolidge’s paintings of dogs playing poker. It was brilliantly done, but what possible reason could anyone have to paint Bacon’s brutal brilliance over this pedestrian nonsense?

Steps alerted him to Eames’s approach before the kiss to his temple did. The image was still on the screen and Eames chuckled as he ran a hand through Arthur’s hair.

“I’m a mystery inside an enigma, love. Don’t try to unravel me.”

Arthur looked over his shoulder to glare at him. “No, I think I understand you just fine. Underneath everything, you just have _shocking_ taste.”

“Considering you’re my latest squeeze you’re insulting yourself there.”

“Squeeze?” Arthur twitched, but when Eames brought him coffee and made him sausage and the best scrambled eggs he had ever tasted, he relented to a kiss.

“See, what we have isn’t so bad,” Eames said, straddling Arthur and making the chair groan under their weight. “Whatever that may be.”

“Mmm.” Arthur leaned his head back as Eames nuzzled his neck. “Whatever it may be, I am not your _squeeze_. Call me that again and I’ll hurt you in your sleep”

Eames chuckled, a rumbling vibration where their chests touched. “Then what shall I call you?”

Putting both hands on Eames’s chest to push him back, Arthur looked at him. He had an easy, relaxed smile, no masks; he was wearing those masks less often these days and Arthur knew he was showing more of himself as well. They were growing comfortable with one another and though there was danger in that there was delight too. Arthur found that he wanted to travel this road with Eames, wanted to know where it led.

Smiling, Arthur answered Eames’s question: “Call me darling.”


End file.
